the floor slick with fish guts and scales. I love the necklaces of pork sausage and the alleluias of grain pouring from burlap sacks into tin measures, trays in which glistening grey bodies of shrimp feebly wave their feelers in the air. I learned my first prayers there, waiting for the butcher's hand to emerge from out of the pocket slit in the throat of a thrashing animal. You said if I closed my eyes, sound would be more terrible than sight. My reward: small specks of a sweet inside red-taped pitogo shells, unburied with a bamboo sliver. I wake sometimes with the sense of a footprint small as a snail's, pilgrim feeling for a path to everything we've always wanted to say.
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